Somewhere Beneath Every Romantic Cliff there is Cold, Damp Ground

I know how you feel, or so goes the cliche.
Like fingers that once caressed your skin
have broken through, have pierced your loyalty,
penetrated your ambitions.
She took your hand and brought you down a dark road,
saying it would take you where you wanted to be.
Then she lead you to the cliff’s edge and pointed to the stars,
to the dreams you would live out together.
With those small hands and delicate fingers, she pointed,
then, with those same gentle hands,
she lead you one step farther, caressed you off into suspension.
She placed those hands on the small of your back.
She coiled those slender arms about your waist.
She half whispered, half-cooed into your ear,
“See, beloved! I have made you to fly!”